Georgia on Her Mind(72)

I laugh. “Me neither.”

“Your mom’s been e-mailing her old friend Rita about a prayer ministry in England.”

I hold up my hands. “Dad, there are prayer ministries in this country. Stay here and pray if that’s what you want to do.”

“We thought of that.” Mom stands by Dad, her arm around his shoulders. “The ministry in England also shelters refugees from the Middle East. We want to be a part of that work. Rita called after church to tell us about a staff opening….”

Dad takes up the story in his pragmatic, businessman’s voice. “Frankly, this is the only door that has opened to us. My spirit tells me it’s the right choice.”

I sigh, actually a little envious of their confidence. “I’m proud of you. It takes guts to make such a major life change.”

“But?” Dad reads my hesitation well.

I slide off the stool. “I just can’t see myself moving back to Beauty.”

Lucy’s, Adriane’s and Dylan’s advice, Return to Beauty is a distant reverberation in my head, like the thunder from the other night. I plug my internal ears.

“Not what you pictured yourself doing at thirty-three?” Dad glances at Mom. “Macy, if you don’t want to come back, we understand. You do what the Lord calls you to do—that’s certainly what we’re doing. But we wanted to offer you the business first.”

“First? Who’s second?”

“Selling it.”

“What? Sell Moore Gourmet Sauces?” I’m yelling now and I don’t care. He’s crazy. He can’t seriously consider selling his life’s work.

Dad nods. “Sell it.”





Chapter Thirty-One




I lie in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight peeks through my window and highlights certain aspects of my room. My Georgia pennant, a gold medal from the year the debate team won regionals, frayed pep-squad pom-poms from my junior year.

I smile, remembering. I let Lucy talk me into the pep squad because I thought I’d see Dylan more—him being the star quarterback and all. The pep squad was the closest I’d ever get to being a cheerleader, so I gave it a go.

Way too much stomping and clapping and shouting, “Go, go, go, Eagles!” for my taste.

I stuck it out that year, but ran the other way when the pep squad’s draft team bounced my way the fall of my senior year. Life is just too short. It’s against natural law for a debate team member to moonlight on the pep squad. Besides, shouting “Dylan, Dylan, he’s our man…” did nothing to boost my esteem in his eyes. Or so I thought.

Of course, umpteen years later I find out he did notice me, but did nothing about it. It’s odd to know how Dylan felt now that we are so far away from high school and college. I wonder how my life would be different if he had expressed his feelings for me back then.

I sit up in bed, plump my pillow behind my back and recline against the headboard. In a way, I’m glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t be me, the person I am today. Weaknesses and failures aside, I like my life so far.

My thoughts segue to Dad and Mom’s news. Moving to England, wanting me to take over the sauce business. The notion gnaws at the deepest part of me.

Unable to stand the mental swirling, I get out of bed and click on the light. A soft white glow warms the room and the monsters of choice retreat under the bed.

I pace. “Lord, Lord, Lord. What do I do here?”

Waiting, I try to listen to my spirit. My head is no good to me now. The past few hours of mental debating warn me not to believe any thoughts I “hear.”

“God, You speak in a still, small voice. Forget the thunderclaps and bolts of lightning. You have my attention. What do You want me to do? What do I need to do?”

I sit on the floor, my back against the bed and I reach for my Bible. I don’t advocate spiritual roulette, but I take a chance and toss out a fleece. “Lord, let me open to Your answer for me. Your Word is my light.”

I close my eyes, let my Bible fall open and jam my finger on a page. I hope it’s not a verse about the curse of Edom and the fall of Moab, or the recompense for the wicked.

I glance down and read. “Your nose is like the tower of Lebanon which looks toward Damascus.”

I laugh. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? I think for a sec, then flip over to the only verse resident in my mind at the moment. Isaiah 61. I skim down to verse three. “To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes.”

What time is it? Is it too late to call Lucy? Surely she’s awake at…I squint at the clock. Yeah, surely she’s awake at 4:00 a.m. Not.

Unable to distract myself with a call to Lucy, I talk to Jesus about the meaning of beauty for ashes.

Several hours later I wake up to a tap, tap, tap on my bedroom door. I’m curled on the floor, hugging my open Bible.

“Macy?” Dad sticks his head in the door.

“Yep, come on in.” I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. I touch my hand to my hair. A rat’s nest, I can tell.

“Did you sleep on the floor?” He steps inside and props his hand on the edge of my little-girl desk.

“Long story.” I hate it when my hair looks like a rat’s nest.

“I’m going over to the church. Want to come?”